


GFDI Dave-In Which Karkats Hips Don't Lie

by paperskythewry



Series: GFDI Dave Oneshots [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Arguing, Banter, Canon Universe, M/M, Meteor, Minor Angst, Oneshot, cantown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 08:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10486782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperskythewry/pseuds/paperskythewry
Summary: THIS TIME--Dave and the Mayor throw down sick beats. Karkat has mad curves. Mild angst.





	

**1.**

Your name is DAVE STRIDER, and you’ve been assigned the task of building cantown’s first music recording studio, (under the careful supervision of the Mayor,) otherwise known as the sickest structure to ever grace town square. It is the dopest creation you have ever taken part in, and you made Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff.

 

For a while, it’s just you and the little guy chilling out. It starts getting kinda awkward, though. Sometimes you forget that the Mayor can’t actually talk--he’s just so expressive! So, you start to fill the silence with your rhymes. You don’t mean to. At first, you’re mumbling, but the mayor starts beatboxing a little bit and it just spirals straight out of control. You feel so proud of your Mayor. He really has become a sick ass beatboxer under your tutelage.

 

So you’re sloppily painting the sign to read “Dave’s Dope Ass Beat Zone,” above your tiny building, mumbling something about “tutors” and “Roses computer,” when you feel a sudden presence behind you.

 

“Strider, what kind of nonsense human ritual is this? Are you trying to summon something?” Karkat says suddenly, and you stiffen, turning around with the dripping paintbrush still in your hand.

 

“What do you think, Vantas? I’m laying out smooth rhymes with the Mayor here like a clean Sunday shirt. We’re fucking ruling this town. The can people are eating this shit for breakfast. We’re so cool.”

 

“Still sounds like somebody’s starving lusus to me.” He says, kneeling down next to you. Shit, your stomach is starting to hurt again. You always felt like some violent monster was trying to claw its way out of your lower intestine when he was close like this. Huh. You wonder what that’s about.

 

“Keep going.” He demands.

 

You try not to be such a wilting asshole and control the lurch in your stomach. “No can do, Karks. You’ve already derailed the beats train. We’re never gonna get back into the groove. I don’t even remember what I was saying.”

 

He rolls his eyes at you, running a finger over the ground where red paint is splattered. You can see the traces of panic contorting his face, but then he narrows his eyes as they scan over your paint can, and the strange look is gone.

 

“And who’s gonna clean this mess up?”

 

“What mess? I don’t see a mess. I think the glorious pollock-esque masterpiece speckling the streets that you’re referring to is actually called art. It’s my gift to the city.”

 

“Your ‘gift’ is a horrible accident that could only be the work of your shitty skills with a bristled pigment spreading apparatus.” He says, accusing you, with no change of expression apart from the slight quirk of his eyebrow. You can’t understand why he couldn’t just use the word ‘paintbrush.’

 

“Shut your garbage mouth, dude. Sometimes art happens by chance. That doesn’t make it any less artful. This shit should be preserved in a goddamn museum.”

 

“Oh, yes. Tell me, Dave. What is the meaning of your pathetic human ‘art?’ What are the metaphorical implications behind the haphazard splatters skidmarking their way across town to this eyesore of a building?” He nudges the studio with his hand, and you try to direct him away. He’s gonna cause city-wide destruction if he’s not careful.

 

“The meaning is fuck you, Karkat. This is my self-expression. You can never understand what inspires my work, even if I spelled it out for you.”

 

“You artists.” He scoffs, with a twinge of playfulness settling somewhere amongst his usual gruff tone. “Look, I’m not going to sit here and tilt my head like a milling, herd-following pasturebeast and tell you what I think this pupa shit represents. So, if you’re trying to pass off these wiggler scribbles as art, you’re going to have to start making something up.”

 

You smirk, taking a deep, mysterious breathe.

 

“Well, you see, these splatters represent the meaning of existence, leaving splatters across space time. The sign indicates a bigger point,” you explain, gesturing grandly. “A master plan. I chose red because it reminds me of our wasted blood…..and such.”

 

You look up to find Karkat in silence, concentrating very hard on your spilled paint. Shit. Did you hit a nerve there? You’re about to fling yourself off of chill tower and into panic zone, but luckily he breathes after a while, looking back at you.

 

“I don’t see it.”

 

“Unbelievable. I poured my heart and soul into this.”

 

“Yeah, and you’re cleaning it.”

 

“What are you doing here anyways?” You ask, resigning to try and wipe some of the paint from the floor.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Strider. I wasn’t aware that the ever-growing expanses of cantown real estate were your personal fucking property.” He replies, picking up a stray piece of chalk and straightening a street line. At least he’s making himself busy. “Probably because that’s not a true fact at all. Whatever capitalistic horrors you’re raining down upon the innocent can people, your devious scam won’t work on me. This is public domain, you pompous fuckwad.”

 

His voice sounds harsher than normal, like he’s in a particularly bad mood. Probably something you have no hope of getting him to talk to you about anyways. Mayor gestures that he wants up, and at first, you reach for him, but then Karkat scoops him up, discarding the chalk and resting him on his hip like a stressed SoHo mom juggling a full time corporate job and mothering three kids.

 

This is not the first time you’ve noticed something significant about Karkats body, but it is the first time you’ve noticed his hips. Although Karkat has a thin frame, you’ve often thought that all his rage and aggression being squished into a body just baring 4’ 11’’ tried in its own way to spread out. The soft curve of his cheek, for instance, compared to the harsh jawline of at least the trolls that you have met is drastic, and somewhat feminine.

Before though, you hadn’t noticed the weight in his hips. Hidden under his bulky sweater and confined by the shape of his jeans, it had never really occurred to you that he might have mad vivacious curves there. But now, with them jutting out like that, Karkat’s sinuous sides are all too obvious. You can’t describe the feeling this gives you, but something innate, deep inside you, tells you that this is an impressive quality.

 

It feels something like..pride. You’re proud that you’re friends with someone with hips like that. Yeah.

 

“Nobody said you weren’t allowed to be here, I’m just wondering why the only time I ever seem to make your royal acquaintance it always seems to be so you can insult me.” You point out, snapping out of your fixation on his side. Apart from the fact that your eyes would burn out of your skull under the meteors fluorescent lighting without your shades, you like to think wearing them has other advantages. Such as checking out your best friend without him noticing. On occasion.

 

“Strider, have you maybe considered that my continued insulting of you might just be a coincidence? Perhaps related to the fact that every time I happen to see you, you’re doing something fuckwhiffingly idiotic?” He suggests. “Or maybe the fact is just that you have an ego as easily bruised as your fragile human exterior!”

 

“I’m proud to be a peach, Karks. Sweet, supple, and covered in hair.” You remark in return.

 

He pulls a face at you that looks like the expressive form of curdled milk, giving you a look over with his eyes.

 

“That’s disgusting, Dave. And so is your unnecessarily elastic exoskeleton.”

 

“I wouldn’t call it an exoskeleton. It’s more like. I dunno, a protective flesh sack for the valuables. You know, organs and blood and stuff.”

 

“Bullshit. How the hell do you expect me to believe that you’re able to retain your blobby, grotesque shape, then?” He interrogates.

 

You almost laugh in surprise, but that would shatter your stoic veneer irreparably, so you pull yourself together. Instead, you slowly blink behind your glasses, letting yourself smirk as you reply matter-of-factly.

 

“My skeleton is on the inside.”

 

“What the fuck.”

 

You gasp, moving to gently cover the Mayors ears.

 

“Stop that. What do you want the Mayor to think? You’re assaulting his young, impressionable ears with your bad influence.” You scold. Karkat swats your hands away.

 

“That statement surprisingly outranks a number of bulge-twistingly inane things you’ve said in the past, since the Mayor is probably fucking sweeps older than anyone you’ve ever met in your puny organic life. In fact, he’s probably the only adult, comparatively speaking, that we can predict to see for the next few lengthy spans of time. Your constant comparison of him to human young is unnerving and uncomfortable. Seriously, what is your deal? What in the perverted labyrinth of your veiny and needlessly bulbous thinksponge, considering the lack of activity that actually goes on in there, makes you seemingly collapse into a gross puddle of juvenile cooing and patronization every time you see him? Do you humans patronize everything that is small and chubby? Or is that just another one of your personal delusions?”

 

After a minute, you give him a meaningful look, emphasising the distance between your head and his with a swift gesture.

 

“Yes.”

 

He glares at you.

 

“It’s not like the Mayor minds anyways, right little dude?” You continue. The Mayor loosely shakes his head, and you pat him there, smirking. “Case in point. I think you might be projecting just a teensy bit, here. But it’s hard not to patronize you, Karkat. I mean, a minute ago you asked me what a skeleton was.”

 

“You say that like _you’re_ familiar with the intelligently designed ins and outs of troll anatomy on some scholarly level. Move over, Dr. Douche is coming through everybody. Don’t worry, he has his credentials.” He rants. “--NOT!!! In fact, if knowledge of eachothers physical nuances were conveniently organised on a scale of progress akin to your human educational institution, which, I might add, I am significantly versed in on account of my attention and concern for the people around me, you, Strider, would probably have been held back in your entry level tier. Sipping fruity beverages and making a sticky mess of crumbs and craft glue all over your technicolor pissbaby worktable. Whereas I would’ve surpassed you by now into a level of studious prestige, a status probably marked by a whopping two digit number. That’s right! Two digits!”

 

You blink. “Dude, is this what you got out of that copy of ‘High School Musical’ I coded from the generator? Because you are missing the point by like, several longshots. The point left the station two hours ago and you just showed up at the point stop with toast in your mouth, dumb anime hair tied up in bows and flowing behind you, skirt reprehensibly short, suitcase in hand, and you will have to wait a whole six hours to find the point again.”

 

It’s possible that you’re rambling a bit now. He’s looking at you like a zebra just sprouted out of your nostril. You clear your throat.

 

“Alright, so maybe you have a point about me not knowing the dirty details of your alien bod. So I didn’t spend my freetime absolutely poring over troll ‘Greys Anatomy’ or whatever. Do I really have a reason to? Can I not just enjoy looking at you like any average joe without having to worry about whether your seemingly normal spine is really a squid tentacle or something? If you’re concerned about my skeleton, that’s your problem. I reserve the right to make fun of you for it and then move on with my life, untormented by visions of whatever nastiness is going on inside your body.”

 

Karkat glares at you, then gently sets the Mayor down, who toddles away on his endearingly stubby legs, ducking for cover from the shitstorm that is about to rain on you like Hurricane Karkatrina.

 

“I’ll give you a reason, Dave! Maybe because, little known fact, we could be entering combat any time now! I won’t even mention that you haven’t gotten off your ass to train with the rest of us since this started, but have you considered that it might be the slightest bit sagacious of you to inform yourself in case something awful happens? I mean, awful things keep happening and I’m starting to wonder what’s going to be the tipping point for you to hoist yourself up by the lobe stem and give your dust-collecting pan a harsh rattle around your THICK HUMAN SKULL!!! Or does the vegetable-sized organ sitting up there not even have the capability of processing rational and realistic thought? Are you telling me that other than innocent curiosity, you can’t fathom why any of us should be asking about bodily composition? Because if so, here. I’ll explain it slowly: Someone. Could. FUCKING. DIE!!!”

 

You’re silent as he wipes the spit off his lower lip, turns on his heel, and stalks out the common room door, the curve of his hip swaying.

 

You feel like an idiot.

  



End file.
